CrossCountry PseudoFeminism in a Brave New World
by Red Ranger Kei
Summary: Mello hates buses, okay, so he's in a bad enough mood already, and it's certainly not helping any that he's wearing a dress. It's going to be a long trip. Gen.


**Authorly preamble or something**: I wrote this in 2007 and, I don't know, somehow I still kind of love it a lot. It's pretty great when I can say that, I think.

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**Cross-Country Pseudo-Feminism in a Brave New World**

Mello hated buses. They were noisy and cramped and sweaty and smelly and fucking annoying in ways he could not emphasize enough. So when he found himself on a Greyhound bus from God Knows Where to Somewhere Hopefully Better, he was less than delighted, and letting everyone in a five mile radius know.

It didn't help that he was wearing a dress.

The last job (Mello was still too pissed over the whole fiasco to think of it in terms more specific than "that absolute fuck-up", usually accompanied with a vicious glare to make sure Matt didn't forget whose fault it had been, or at least whom he was blaming) had left his clothes too tattered and encrusted with dirt and God only knows what else to be considered even remotely wearable, although Mello probably would have tried had it not been so goddamn fucking hot out.

"The weather has no right to be hotter than your temper," Matt had observed, and ducked to allow the nearly empty vodka bottle to smash against the wall behind him.

"I fucking hate you, you know that?!"

"Yeah, Mello, I know."

"Don't roll your fucking eyes at me!"

The major disadvantage of being stuck in some middleclass tasteless backwoods excuse for a town, Mello decided, seething, was that the closest thing they had to culture was a goddamn Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart Greeters, they were another thing Mello hated. He hated the whole fucking idea of them, and each and every single one of them individually. So, when an elderly woman had cheerfully chirped "No shirt, no shoes, no service!" Matt was forced to politely explain that Mello did not currently own a shirt, not one that could by any stretch of the imagination be considered wearable, that's why we're here, ma'am, to get him a shirt, while doing his best to restrain Mello, whispering that killing someone in a store of that size might attract a tad more attention than they needed, and Mello screamed furiously, "Let me go, Matt, let me at her! Like one less goddamned Greeter is going to set the world off-fucking-balance!"

"Don't mind him, he's just moody," Matt assured the completely unfazed woman, dragging Mello off in a desperate attempt to keep things as close to peaceful as they would ever get.

It didn't take Matt long to find something he could live with; a standard generic black teeshirt with long white sleeves attached to give the illusion of a second shirt (was anyone actually stupid enough to believe it?), and a pair of jeans similar enough to his usual wear that he couldn't help but smile crookedly. Mello simply scoffed.

Ah, Mello. Finding clothing for him proved more difficult. Nothing seemed to fit right. And so he tore through the racks, flinging clothing about, screaming bloody murder about fucking Americans and their fucking obesity and demanding Matt tell him why everything he tried on made him look like a fucking scrawny waif runaway orphan with a habit.

Matt tactfully neglected to point out how well that description happened to fit him and offered a vague shrug that earned him another frustrated scream. He managed to suppress a chuckle when Mello overturned a rack of plus sized dresses.

As it so happened, the only place they could find anything that came close to fitting the slender boy was in the women's section. Hissing bitterly, Mello resolved to find the sluttiest ensemble he could for reasons Matt didn't care enough to attempt to comprehend, and set off with renewed fervour.

Grinning at his reflection with disgusted satisfaction, Mello finally declared he had settled on an outfit, and Matt could do nothing but stare. It fit the criteria Mello had laid out, that was for certain. It was a dress, rather a nightgown of sorts, no longer than an untucked dress shirt and very low in the front, a pale purplish hue with black lace. It was clearly designed for a woman with no tits and great legs, which was perfect since Mello, male despite some people's immediate impressions, had no tits and _fabulous_ legs. He chose to accent it with knee-high leather boots adorned with giant silver buckles (identical to the ones he'd previously owned but for the heels, four inch platform stilettos; Matt pretended not to notice that Mello seemed to have no trouble at all walking in them) and a three dollar cross from a stand near the jewellery counter that, with a bit of imagination, could be taken for a rosary. (Pissed beyond belief over the loss of his favourite rosary that doubtless had a story behind it he refused to tell fucking anybody, Mello had made sure to knock the stand over before heading to the cash decked out in his ridiculous gear, Matt loaded down with chocolate and struggling to keep up with him, and shoved twice the amount of cash necessary into the gawking cashier's hand, spitting, "Keep the change.")

He was mistaken for a hooker three times before they made it to the bus stop.

Matt was allowed the window seat through virtue of nearly sweating through his shirt by the time they were on the bus. Mello had informed him in a low hiss between his front teeth that Matt had made his bed and was expected to lie in it, which was really just a fancy way of saying "take off your shirt and I'll shoot you in the fucking kneecap", and Matt had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

He tilted his head back, sweat-damp hair clinging to the back of his neck in a way that kind of made him want to puke, and tried very hard not to think about the beads of sweat running down his back. Yeah, maybe Mello had known what he was doing when he picked out that getup, but with Mello it was always hard to tell. Two parts logic, one part shock value, or something like that. Whatever.

Matt watched from the corner of his eye as a bead of sweat emerged from the top of one of Mello's boots (he'd kicked his feet up on the seat before him upon sitting, which had succeeded not only in deterring several people in search of seats of their own, but also seemed to have made a middle-aged woman on the other side of the aisle a little twitchy), and Mello flicked it away with an irritated, teeth-baring grimace. Matt wondered vaguely if Mello had bothered to put on socks under those ridiculous boots of his. He'd foregone the luxury himself, and was now sorely regretting it; even sitting he could feel the gentle throb of developing blisters on the sides of his feet and heels. He watched another bead roll up Mello's leg, this one disappearing beneath the lacy hem of his dress, and his casual scrutiny earned him a sharp glare and a pointed glance of Mello's canine teeth.

Matt turned his gaze to the window and sighed quietly, the comparative cool of his breath tickling his nose and upper lip.

It was going to be a _damn_ long trip.


End file.
